The Meaning of Fine
by MaddieMooreland
Summary: It isn't that Sam wants to lie to Dean, he has just decided on a very narrow definition of "Fine." Takes place S3, after "A Very Supernatural Christmas." Sam and Dean go on a routine hunt, and Sam is injured worse than he realizes. (First fic! Let me know how I'm doing!)
1. Chapter 1

"You okay, Sammy?" The roads were getting slick, but Dean risked a glance at his brother who hadn't said a word in about three hundred miles.

_You okay, Sammy? _No. He was not okay. Sam could barely remember the last time he had been okay. A quick inventory revealed a purple and green bruise the size of a baseball on his thigh, a shoulder that had been dislocated enough times that it never quite stopped hurting, and his left ankle was still a little bit sprained from running through that cornfield last week. Not to mention the crushing guilt and fear from the knowing there was a good chance that his brother would be in hell this time next year.

Dean knew that Sam was not okay, but Sam knew that wasn't what he was really asking. To Dean, ""You okay, Sammy?" meant "Can you make it back to the Impala?" or "You got banged around, are you still physically able to back me up?" and sometimes, like now, "Is there something you need to tell me?" But there wasn't. There was absolutely nothing new to say.

"I'm fine, Dean. Just tired." And Sam was tired. They had been working as though they had the devil on their tail for a solid month now. Of course, that wasn't so far off either. Dean ran his hand over his mouth but let it go. Dean was tired too.

"Well if the weather doesn't get worse, we should be there in less than an hour. This should be a pretty simple salt and burn. In and out."

Sam flicked open the case file and skimmed the news report again. MORE DEATHS AT LAKE, the headline read. Two college students had been found hacked to pieces in a ramshackle abandon cabin on the edges of a summer lake community. The cabin had belonged to a man who had been murdered, along with his wife, when they surprised some incredibly unstable squatters fifteen years ago. It was Dean's theory that the ghost husband or wife was protecting their property. Sam was inclined to agree.

"My guess is no one is going to be at the lake in January on the eve of a snow storm. Wanna go straight there, figure out which ghost we are dealing with and then get it done before we stop somewhere for the night? The cemetery is pretty close to the cabin, and I'm worried about the weather."

Dean wasn't going to say it, but he was a little worried about the weather too. And he didn't relish the idea of digging a grave out from under a few feet of snow tomorrow. "Sounds like a plan to me."

The lake house was exactly as empty and foreboding as Sam would have guessed, though the darkening gray sky and spitting sleet added a certain cinematic touch. Sam was glad for the extra warmth of the hoodie under his winter coat.

Dean's leather jacket probably wasn't providing nearly as much protection from the elements but Sam knew he had a zero percent chance or convincing Dean to borrow something better suited.

Dean shouldered his shotgun and slammed the trunk of the car. "Ready to go, Sammy?" He didn't both to wait for Sam to agree before heading up the stairs. Sam sighed and followed behind him.

Dean took point, like always. It was a little hard to see in the gloom of the cabin, but Dean was quite sure the ghost would make himself known. He stepped over what was probably once a chair, into the main room where the kids had been found. Sam followed with the EMF detector, which was going crazy. Dean could see his breath, but he'd been able to do that outside, too.

Dean knocked a box off junk off a table, sending it to the floor with a crash. "Hey buddy! Come and get me!"

It worked. A spirit—the husband, as Dean had suspected—came zooming out at him, armed with a machete. Dean fired off a salt round and it vanished. "Let's go burn him, Sammy." Dean turned just in time to have the gun knocked out of his hands by another ghost, the wife. So _two _angry sprits. Sam fired at her and she vanished, only to be replaced by her husband who swatted Sam to the floor. Dean watched as Sam's gun skittered out of his hands.

"Sonofabitch," Dean swore, as he scrambled towards his gun and the salt in his duffle bag, which ever he could get to first. The wife appeared as it was almost in his reach and kicked him in the ribs, knocking the breath out of him. She did it again and Dean felt something crack. He glanced towards Sammy for help only to find he had his hands full. The ghost husband had Sam pinned in the corner. Sam was holding him off, but it looks like the ghost had gotten a few swipes of his blade in already.

That was all the adrenaline rush Dean needed. Dean pulled the ghost bitch down to the floor, surprising her, and used the moment to retrieve his weapon. He shot her in the face and swung on Sammy's ghost and shot him too. That gave Sam the chance to get to his feet and reclaim his gun.

"Let's get out of here, Sammy." Dean turned to grab his bag and Sam fired a round at whatever ghost had reappeared. The wife. Dean swung around and as the husband rematerialized too.

"Dean!"

"I see him Sammy." Dean shot at the ghost again, covering Sam as he reloaded and they both moved towards the door. A few more bullets and they were outside, sprinting down the stairs towards the car. Dean nearly slipped on the now icy stairs. Rookie move, he though, catching himself just in time on the banister.

Sam was already in the car, breathing hard when Dean got in. Dean turned the keys and hurtled them down the driveway, probably a bit faster than Baby should have been going in these conditions.

"I think that bitch broke one of my ribs," Dean growled as the adrenalin faded and the damage started to make itself known. "You okay, Sammy?"

The ghost has sliced him a little bit—the side of his face, and something a little nastier on his side, but he'd had worse and some gauze and duck tape would probably do the trick for an hour or two until they could stitch it up somewhere cleaner. He could dig.

"I'm fine. Let's go burn 'em."

The cemetery was close to the cabin, and the double grave they had been buried in wasn't all that hard to find, all though the digging was going slower than usual, thanks to their battle wounds and having to dig up two graves instead of just one. To make matters worse, it was fully dark and also starting to snow in earnest now. Dean hated January. He leaned on his shovel to catch his breath for a minute. His rib was definitely broken. Every breath was agony. He looked over at Sam, and saw that even by the lantern his brother looked pale as well.

"Hey Sammy, are you sure you don't want to finish this tomorrow?"

"And leave two half-dug graves out here all night?" Sam leaned back on his heels and glanced at Dean. Sam wasn't feeling great either- the ducktape bandage wasn't doing as well as he had hoped. He could feel a steady trickle of blood seeping into his shirt and waistband. It was probably the only part of him that was warm. Still, he was almost finished—he could power through it. If Dean could dig with a broken rib, Sam could dig with a little cut. Sam picked up his shovel again.

Dean finished his hole and looked over at Sam, ready to give him some crap for losing the race. But Sam did not look good. He was still digging, but he seemed really unsteady on his feet. Dean pulled himself out of the grave and went over to his brother, concerned

"Hey Sammy, how about taking a break? You can salt and burn mine and I'll finish yours okay?"

Sam didn't fight him on it, just reached up so Dean could help him out. It was torture on his ribs, but he didn't hesitate. Sam's hand was colder than Dean expected it to be, even in the snow.

"Maybe the fire will warm you up."

"Mmhmm." Sam grabbed the gas out of the duffle and stumbled towards the other grave. Something was definitely wrong. Maybe they'd been out in the cold too long. Dean dropped into the grave Sam had been working on and finished it quickly, ignoring the protests of his body. Next to him, he felt the heat of fire Sam was setting.

"All right, Sammy, my turn. Almost done." Dean pulled himself out and was shocked to find his brother looking so drawn and leaning heavily against the car. Dean threw down his shovel and rushed towards him. "Jesus, Sam, you okay?"

The world spun and tilted at an angle and Sam started to slide down the Impala. "I don't think so."


	2. Chapter 2

Dean swore and grabbed his brother before he hit the ground. Sammy was cold, really cold, and Dean couldn't see him all that well in the dark and snow. Well, Dean had to light a fire anyway. He grabbed a towel from the back of the Impala and put Sammy on it, next to the grave. He quickly salted the bones and dumped in the gasoline and threw in a match. As the flames caught, he ran his hands over Sammy, looking for whatever had caused him to pass out.

He peeled back Sammy's eyelids, but the pupils were normal. Not a concussion then. The cut on his cheek wasn't that deep, and it didn't look like he had any head wounds. Sam's pulse was quick, but weak, and his lips were blue. It was cold out, but not that cold and Dean had been out just as long as Sammy, and in jacket that provided much less warmth.

"Dammit Sammy, what is wrong?" Dean hated to rob him of the warmth, but he started to slide of Sam's coat so he could get a better look at him. What was wrong was immediately apparent. The lining was wet, soaked in Sam's blood. As was his shirt. Dean pulled out his knife and sliced through the duct tape on Sam's side. The cut wasn't as deep as one's they had both had, but it was still bleeding pretty heavily.

"You said you were fine!" Dean eased Sam back onto the ground and ran to the Impala. He grabbed a first aid kit, the whiskey, and a tshirt. The snow was picking up and Dean didn't want to do this outside but he didn't think he'd have enough room in the car. He wiped his hand clean as best he could with the t-shirt and then opened the bottle of whiskey and poured some over his hands, and then onto Sam. Sam didn't even flinch. That wasn't good.

He found the needle and dental floss in the kit and started stitching Sam back up. Sam was better at DIY surgery then Dean, but John had taught both boys to be competent field medics. Stitches done, Dean found some antibiotic ointment in the kit and slathered it over them, before covering everything back up with a real bandage.

It had all taken less than five minutes—_Jesus, Sam, I could have stitched you back up in five minutes if you'd said something!_—but Sam was clearly doing worse. Dean moved over and propped Sam's feet up in his lap—John had indeed trained him well- and threw his jacket over the rest of him, fishing his cell phone out of the pocket to call for help. He had service, a little bit, but a female robot informed him that all circuits are busy. Damn storm. He swore and tossed the useless phone towards the first aid kit.

"Okay, Sammy. Now what?" Dean shoved down the panic and quickly went over his options. He hadn't traded his life to lose his kid brother in the snow to some stupid cut Sam had been too—whatever-to tell him about.

There was probably an inch and a half of snow on the roads by now, none of which had been treated. Baby was okay in snow, but Dean wasn't as confident as he wanted to be that he'd be able to get her and them back into town all in one piece in the dark, especially without Sam to help push her if she got caught on some ice. Plus Dean wasn't sure he could make it in time either. Sam had clearly lost a lot of blood.

Only one really shitty option then.


	3. Chapter 3

Dean laid Sam down in the backseat and propped his feet up as best he could against the door and covered him with every jacket he could find, before returning outside for the first aid kit. He really wanted a belt of whiskey too, but that probably wouldn't help much. He turned Baby on and checked the tank, grateful he'd filled up right before they arrived. He'd have to keep an eye on it to make sure she didn't run so dry she couldn't make it back into town, but she ought to be able to keep the boys warm for a while.

He got back into the car and leaned over the backseat towards Sam, twisting his broken rib painfully. This would have been easier if his brother weren't so damn big and he could actually fit back there with him. Too bad nothing every came easy for Sam and Dean.

There was a sheen of sweat on Sam's face, but he still felt cold to the touch. Well, Dean was literally damned if he did, damned if he didn't.

"Here goes nothing."

Dean ripped open the package for the field transfusion kit. He knew in theory what he was doing—he was prepared enough to have bought the damn kit, after all—but Dean had ever actually tried this. And Dean knew the risks. He may never heed them, but Dean _always_ knew the risks. And it was Sammy.

Dean rolled up his shirt and swabbed his arm with alcohol before doing the same with Sammy's. He inserted the needle with the tubing into his arm, and then into Sam's. He released the clamps and watched as his blood started rolling down the tube into Sam's veins.

"Hold on a little longer, Sammy."

Dean set his watch for 30 minutes. There was no way to tell how much blood Sammy needed or how much Dean was giving, but thirty minutes ought to be a little less than two liters. A healthy person could lose two liters and still be okay. As far as Dean was concerned, Sam could have it all, but someone had to make sure he got out of this okay.


	4. Chapter 4

Halfway in and Dean was starting to wish he kept better hydrated, but the color was starting to come back into Sam's face.

"Sammy, you with me yet?" Sam didn't open his eyes, but turned his head towards Dean's voice.

"Dean?" he croaked.

"Hey there kiddo! Back to the land of the living!" Sam wasn't quite sure that was how he would characterize it—he was feeling pretty queasy and shaky, and his head was pounding. He opened his eyes.

"Jesus Christ, Dean! What are you doing?" Sam tried to sit up and yank the tubing out of his arm, but his body wouldn't cooperate and the car wouldn't stop whirling, so he settled for batting at it. A freaking field transfusion? Who did Dean think he was?

"Woah there, Sammy. Take it easy."

'Take it out Dean. I'm not kidding."

Dean checked his watch. "I'm okay for ten more minutes kid. I barely feel it. " Dean was lying, he certainly felt it—he was exhausted all the sudden- but he was also sure he could go another ten minutes.

Sam, however, was not having it. He made another weak attempt at yanking out the tube and was clearly not going to stop.

"Fine," Dean growled, sliding the needle out of his vein. He pulled some gauze tight against where the needle had been and then did the same to Sammy. "Feeling better?" Dean brushed his hand against Sammy's forehead, pleased it wasn't as clammy as before.

"I think so," Sam answered slowly. "What happened?"

Now that Sammy was doing better, anger started to replace Dean's fear. "You happened! What the hell, Sammy? Why didn't you tell me you were still bleeding?"

"I'm sorry Dean! I didn't realize… I… ." Sam was at a loss for words. He'd known he was injured, but he truly hadn't realized how injured. "I don't know what happened. You saw the cut—it wasn't that bad! I didn't know how much I was bleeding." Dean was not pacified.

" This was so stupid. Don't you realize what could have happened? What almost happened!"

Sammy could finally move into a sitting position without wanting to throw up.

"I think the cold made me bleed more without my realizing it. I'm sorry, Dean. I really am." Sam's eyes were shinning, but Dean's were still cold.

"You cannot do this to me, do you understand? I cannot have you—" Dean choked, "—cold on me again. You have to take care of yourself! I'm not—I'm not always going to be around to do it. I didn't make that deal so you could go and die in the snow a few months later over something so stupid."

Sam's face crumpled—another entry on the long list of Things Sam Had Screwed Up. Dean turned and stared out the windshield at the snow.

"I can't watch you die again, Sammy." Dean said it so quietly Sam barely heard it.

Careful not to pull his stitches or throw up in the car, Sam pulled himself into the passenger seat.

"I'm sorry, Dean. I won't do it again. Lesson learned." Sam put a hand on Dean's shoulder fully expecting him to shake it off, but he didn't. Dean turned back to face Sam, pain and worry etched into his face.

"Promise me, Sammy. Promise me you will be okay."

Sam knew he would never, by any definition, be okay without Dean.

"I'll be fine Dean. I promise."


End file.
